


"Naked"

by fannishliss



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-08
Updated: 2011-09-08
Packaged: 2017-11-26 15:42:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/651900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fannishliss/pseuds/fannishliss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He's calm and satisfied and I look at him from across the room, and I am violent and restless wanting every part of him."</p>
            </blockquote>





	"Naked"

title: "Naked"  
Author: [](http://fannishliss.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://fannishliss.livejournal.com/)**fannishliss**  
genre: nine/rose smut, slight angst  
warnings, spoilers: none  
length: 2600 words  
 **then_theres_us ficathon**[](http://then-theres-us.livejournal.com/289499.html?thread=5315035#t5315035)prompt from zazie11  :  Rose/Nine - M, please and thank you: "He's calm and satisfied and I look at him from across the room, and I am violent and restless wanting every part of him."

===

It hardly ever happens: the Doctor, calm and satisfied.  I can hardly think of a time he's been relaxed, at ease.  Sure, sometimes he's triumphant — but nearly always he's had to bear some terrible cost.  Or, he's trying to appear calm and sure, but all the while, underneath, he's a mess of anxiety, his fierce energy ready to explode out into the world, to do what has to be done.

Today, he's delivered an egg to a hatchery.  He's saved a city, saved a whole planet, again.  He's even saved an enemy, given her a second chance. Now, the three of us are having a quiet evening in the library.  The Tardis is playing music in the background, classical, jazz, things I've never heard of, probably instruments I can't even imagine.  I'm just sitting, Great Expectations open in my lap, and Jack's curled up across from him, and he has a big pile of all sorts of different books, thumbing through them till his thoughts carry him faster than mere pages can.   He's resting, and for once, he's calm and satisfied.  

Me, though — I feel violent, restless.  I've just run away from a good man, someone who cares about me, who promised himself to me, that he'd always take care of me.  I ran away from him one too many times I think.  I don't blame him,  I can't, but now there's an ache inside me, something torn, and I wonder what I was thinking.

Jack taps me on the shoulder. "Hey, I'm going down to the galley.  I found this place in Cardiff that makes these fantastic mocha milkshakes, and I got 'em to fill a big canister for me.  Wanna share, sweetheart?"  He waggles his eyebrows at me, but it's just his big heart. He knows I'm hurting.

"Nah, I'm okay for now.  Ask me again tomorrow," I say to Jack, hoping he sees that I appreciate the gesture.  His eyes flicker to the Doctor. I try not to give it away, but Jack knows me better than that already.  

"Sure thing," he says.  "I'm gonna turn in," he announces to the room.  

"Pleasant dreams," the Doctor says without looking up.  

Jack whistles as he leaves the library, once last look at me, a tap on the doorframe, and he's gone.  

The Doctor changes books.  I think about the thousands, maybe millions, of books in this library, the way the shelves vanish back into the walls, and wonder how many times he's read them all.  He's so vast.  Sometimes it seems like I can see right down into the heart of him, but sometimes it's like I can't know him at all, like he's just too different, too much for me.  

I feel like throwing something, and all I've got is this innocent book.  Besides, it's a signed first edition, inscribed to the Doctor.

"Rose," the Doctor says, "you all right?"  

I look up, surprised.  "What?  Yeah, I'm fine."

He frowns.  "Your heartbeat's fast, temperature's up slightly, you've broken out into a sweat — and there's capillary contraction, increased blood pressure. You having a delayed reaction?"

Maybe I am.  Suddenly, I'm furious.  

"Yeah, yeah, maybe," I mutter.  I can hardly see him, I'm so angry.  

"You're angry," he says, in that low calm tone, and that's it.  Dickens is on the floor and I'm halfway across the room.  

"Rose!" he says.

"Shut it!" I shout.  I charge out into the corridor, make a left, a right, go up a stair, take the third left.... and when I open the door that should be my bedroom, it's someone else's room, an old canopy bed, a white shag rug, seventies popstar posters on the walls.  

I reel back in horror.  I try not to think of it, all the girls who've come before me, but sometimes it just slaps me in the face.  I slam the door, leaning up against it.  All right, I've just got to calm down.  The Tardis knows where I am, even if I don't.  She'll take me back.  

I close my eyes and try to breathe, but my heart is pounding and I can't calm down.  I turn left and just run down the corridor.  I can't bring myself to open any more doors, afraid of what I'll find... traces of friends he's left behind, so many girls, all more beautiful than me.  

Now I've done it.  There aren't many dead end corridors on the Tardis — most just endlessly circle around.  But this is a dead end.  I slam up against the coral wall, just leaning against it, cooling my forehead a while.  

Finally I feel the Tardis nudging me, so I turn, and shuffle aimlessly, turning when she says turn.  

I end up in the pool.  Okay.  I peel everything off and slip into the water. The Doctor likes it freezing, so I know she's heated it just for me.  

"Thanks," I whisper.  I wish she had a name.  

I spent a lot of time at the estate pool, summers.  I'd go there in the morning as soon as it opened, practicing strokes, so I'm a pretty good swimmer.  My gymnastics teacher always said it was good for building stamina.  Never knew how much running I'd be doing later on.  But swimming can be exhausting and that's good when you're full of angry energy.  So I swim and swim, not even counting the laps, till my arms are like lead.  

Finally, I've just come up over the edge of the pool, heading for the towels, when I see him.  

He's just sitting there, calm and collected as ever, and he's been watching me this whole time.  

I'm standing there without a stitch on, his blue eyes boring into mine.  

"Pardon me," I say, "I should get a towel." My mouth has good instincts, but somehow my feet won't move.  

"You still angry?"  he says, simply.

Am I?  "I'm naked," I say.  

"Yes, you are," he says.  He doesn't move.

"Guess that doesn't matter to you," I say.  Do I sound bitter?  Do I care?

"Why should it matter?" he says.

"I don't know.  I don't know," I repeat, looking away from him.  I'm fit, I'm young, I have those things going for me at least, but he's looking through me like I'm nothing.  

"I'm sorry, Rose," the Doctor says.  There's a tightness in his voice.  

"For what?"  I say.  

"I don't know.  Whatever made you mad.  Whatever I did to hurt you.  I didn't mean to," he says.  

"You sound like a little kid," I say, meanly.

He doesn't answer.  I look up, and he shrugs.  

"Can I make it better?"  he asks.

"Are you gonna offer ice cream?  Cause Jack already tried that," I say.  

"Are you mad because of Mickey?" he says.  

"No," I say, and it's true.  

"Then it's me," he says.  

"Yes," I say, and my hands fly up to cover my mouth.

"Tell me," he says, and his voice, so low and even, doesn't even infuriate me any more.  I just want him so much, I'm nothing but want. I want every part of him, everything about him.  I don't know what I'm going to do.

"I want you," I whisper behind my hands.

He stands up, pacing closer to me.  He looks so stupid in the hot, humid air in his heavy black jacket, heavy black boots — as though naked I've got the high ground somehow.  

He lifts his hands to his own mouth, staring at me.  

"Wanting isn't enough," he whispers clearly.  

My hands fall.  "What else is there?"  

"You tell me," he answers.

"I need you," I say.

He shakes his head, waiting.

"I love you," I say, and my heart breaks as I say it out loud.  I know I'm young. I shouldn't know what love is.  I'm only nineteen.  I've made mistakes.  But I do know.  I went with Jimmy Stone because I loved him, even though he wasn't worthy of that love.  I went with Mickey because he loved me — now I'm not sure I was worthy either.  I've seen my mum break her heart over men, for one reason or another, but never for love.  I know love.  

"I love you!" I shout at the Doctor, and now I'm furious again.  How dare he drag it out of me like this, the bastard!

"I know," he says, and at last, he's smiling.  

"Why are you smiling?" I shout at him. Once again, I've got nothing to throw.  

"Because you're beautiful," he says, through his mad smile. "You're brilliant.  You want me, you need me, but beyond all that, you love me.  You should be ready to run by now, the things you've seen, the things you've learned about me, but instead, you love me."

"I do," I say.  "I can't help it."

"I can't either," he says.

"What?" I gasp.

"I love you, too," he says.  "I should  know better.  You're too young — centuries too young.  You're not even the right species.  But I love you. I have since the second time I ever saw you."  

"Why not the first time?" I demand.

"Well, I was a bit preoccupied, wasn't I, blowing up your work and all," he says.  "But I did make introductions, so that's something."

Suddenly, somehow, I fly into his arms, and he's kissing me, and his thoughts are pouring into my mind, and I never guessed they would be so carnal.

He's pulled me down into that damn chair he was sitting on, and I'm on his lap and he's still got on every stupid piece of clothing, even the jacket, and I'm naked, and his hands, his beautiful hands, are all over me, and I don't flipping care.  

"I never got a towel," I murmur into his kisses.  "I'm getting you all wet."  

"Oh really," he says, with his wickedest grin.  "Because I though I was getting you all wet."

"Doctor!" I laugh, scandalized, though I don't know how I can still be shocked by a double entendre while I'm naked on the lap of a nine-hundred-year old alien, and all his naughty thoughts are racing through my brain, finding their mates and hooking up like mad.

I squirm out of his grasp and straddle him, my knees on either side of his hips.  He looks up at me, knowing, waiting.

"You've been waiting all along," I accuse him.  "You've known all along how I felt about you!"

He shrugs.  "I'm old, I'm good at waiting," he said.  "If it never happens, it's not meant to be."

"Is it meant to be now?" I ask.

"I certainly hope so," he says, "cause it's happening, and it's gonna keep happening unless you stop it."

"It won't be me stopping it," I say.  "Unless it's just long enough for us to get to a bed."

With a gleam in his eye, he effortlessly stands, one arm supporting me locked around his waist.  In a few quick strides he's crossed to a door I'm sure wasn't there before, and when he pulls it open, there's a bedroom.  

It's not his bedroom.  It's got draperies hanging everywhere and richly patterned carpets and the bed is low and enormous and covered with cushions.  

"Time Lord guest room," he says, lowering me gently to the bed.  "Haven't had guests in, well, ever.  My school colors, crimson and orange, the Prydonian academy... Lungbarrow crest, even though they disowned me...  painting of the Citadel...  and this is all Gallifreyan silk, finest in the galaxy.  And if I press this button," which he did with a flourish, "it's ambient music from my home country, the tafelshrews and the silver trees of the southern mountains."

The music is ethereal, like whistling and chimes.  It makes me think of wind and starlight, calm and serene.  But I still don't feel that way, violent and restless, wanting every part of him.

"Don't talk," I say.   I reach up and pull him down on top of me.  His eyes blaze and his mouth falls to mine.  There's no more talking.

He devours my mouth till I can't breathe and when I'm panting through swollen lips, he attacks my neck, biting and licking till I'm groaning his name, over and over.

He moves to my breasts, suckling on one side while fondling the other, paying close attention to what has me gasping for more. As he suckles in what he's found to be the most perfect way, his hand sneaks down, between my legs, and he finds me absolutely ready for him.  

"I've wanted to touch you, like this," he says, gentling two long fingers between my folds and sliding them lightly in and out, making me writhe towards him, aching for more.  "I've wanted to see you come apart for me."

"Oh!" I moan, gazing up at him, burning at the touch of his cool fingers.  

"You're so much hotter to the touch than I am," he says calmly.  "I imagine pushing inside you, feeling that heat engulf me."  His fingers are so steady, caressing me so perfectly that I can't even answer.

"Do you want that?"  he whispers.  He touches his forehead to mine, sending me the image of him lying on top of me, pressing his sex into mine.  

"Ah!" I groan, "yes, yes!"  

"Done," he says, and in seconds, he's kicked off his boots, shed the jacket and jumper and jeans, and he's back, naked on top of me.  His body is cool, smooth, but his gaze is like fire.

"I'm not exactly human," he says, "but I don't think you'll mind."  

He kisses me, tenderly, stroking his hand along my face and sending such amazing thoughts into my mind — beautiful images of planets and stars and nebulae, the most beautiful images in all the universe.  

His hand snakes down between our bodies and he strokes me there again, till I'm moaning, thrusting up into him, searching for the part of him that fits inside of me.  Then, at last, as I'm shaking with pleasure from the touch of his fingers, I feel it, pressing into me. My legs fall open, and he eases inside.  

"Ahhh," he sighs, as though he were slipping into a hot bath.  He stills for a moment, breathing, and then I feel his organ begin to pulse inside me, and with every pulse, it thrusts deeper inside, till it hits the secret place that sends me over.  His sex begins to nudge there, as though it knows just how incredibly good that feels, and ecstasy pours up my spine. I groan and shudder, but he's pressing me down, and I can't move, and it's heaven, he's kissing me and moaning my name, and my mind is full of starlight and fire, and the pleasure inside me just rocks and builds, falling away to spiral higher every time, until I'm screaming his name, the name I see in the nebulae, that's ringing like chimes in my head.  He's all around me, inside me, through me.

"Rose, my Rose," he groans and when I answer, in his mind, with the name I've learned, he cries out, wordless, and bliss cascades through us till we fall.

I don't think he needs much sleep, but he covers us with a crimson sheet and holds me as I grow drowsy,  and he hums a wordless tune that sounds like the trees.  His voice is husky and sweet, and when I awake he's still there, beside me, a smile in his eyes.  

"Morning, Rose," he says, "feeling better?"

I can hardly remember the cross mood I was in, the violence and the restlessness and the desperate, hopeless wanting.  

"Perfect," I say, and he covers me again with laughter and kisses.  
  



End file.
